without.’
‘You mean—?’
‘The pleasure of refusing to answer questions.’
‘Ah c’est malin.’
‘Quite so.’
‘Ah, well, well,’ murmured Poirot. ‘The strong silent man beloved of novelists in the Edwardian age.’
His eyes twinkled with their old glint.
Nick passed our table shortly afterwards. She detached herself from her partner and swooped down on us like a gaily-coloured bird.
‘Dancing on the edge of death,’ she said lightly.
‘It is a new sensation, Mademoiselle?’
‘Yes. Rather fun.’
She was off again, with a wave of her hand.
‘I wish she hadn’t said that,’ I said, slowly.
‘Dancing on the edge of death. I don’t like it.’
‘I know. It is too near the truth. She has courage, that little one. Yes, she has courage. But unfortunately it is not courage that is needed at this moment. Caution, not courage— voilàce qu’il nous faut! ’
The following day was Sunday. We were sitting on the terrace in front of the hotel, and it was about half-pasteleven when Poirot suddenly rose to his feet.
‘Come, my friend. We will try a little experiment. I have ascertained that M. Lazarus and Madame have gone out in the car and Mademoiselle with them. The coast is clear.’
‘Clear for what?’
‘You shall see.’
We walked down the steps and across a short stretch of grass to the sea. A couple of bathers were coming up it. They passed us laughing and talking.
When they had gone, Poirot walked to the point where an inconspicuous small gate, rather rusty on its hinges, bore the words in half obliterated letters, ‘End House. Private.’ There was no one in sight. We passed quietly through.
In another minute we came out on the stretch of lawn in front of the house. There was no one about. Poirot strolled to the edge of the cliff and looked over. Then he walked towards the house itself. The French windows on to the verandah were open and we passed straight into the drawing-room. Poirot wasted no time there. He opened the door and went out into the hall. From there he mounted the stairs, I at his heels. He went straight to Nick’s bedroom—sat down on the edge of the bed and nodded to me with a twinkle.
‘You see, my friend, how easy it is. No one has seen us come. No one will see us go. We could do any littleaffair we had to do in perfect safety. We could, for instance, fray through a picture wire so that it would be bound to snap before many hours had passed. And supposing that by chance anyone did happen to be in front of the house and see us coming. Then we would have a perfectly natural excuse—providing that we were known as friends of the house.’
‘You mean that we can rule out a stranger?’
‘That is what I mean, Hastings. It is no stray lunatic who is at the bottom of this. We must look nearer home than that.’
He turned to leave the room and I followed him. We neither of us spoke. We were both, I think, troubled in mind.
And then, at the bend of the staircase, we both stopped abruptly. A man was coming up.
He too stopped. His face was in shadow but his attitude was one of one completely taken aback. He was the first to speak, in a loud, rather bullying voice.
‘What the hell are you doing here, I’d like to know?’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘Monsieur—Croft, I think?’
‘That’s my name, but what—’
‘Shall we go into the drawing-room to converse? It would be better, I think.’
The other gave way, turned abruptly and descended, we following close on his heels. In the drawing-room,with the door shut, Poirot made a little bow.
‘I will introduce myself. Hercule Poirot at your service.’
The other’s face cleared a little.
‘Oh!’ he said slowly. ‘You’re the detective chap. I’ve read about you.’
‘In the St Loo Herald ?’
‘Eh? I’ve read about you way back in Australia. French, aren’t you?’
‘Belgian. It makes no matter. This is my friend, Captain Hastings.’
‘Glad to meet you. But look, what’s the big
‘You mean—?’
‘The pleasure of refusing to answer questions.’
‘Ah c’est malin.’
‘Quite so.’
‘Ah, well, well,’ murmured Poirot. ‘The strong silent man beloved of novelists in the Edwardian age.’
His eyes twinkled with their old glint.
Nick passed our table shortly afterwards. She detached herself from her partner and swooped down on us like a gaily-coloured bird.
‘Dancing on the edge of death,’ she said lightly.
‘It is a new sensation, Mademoiselle?’
‘Yes. Rather fun.’
She was off again, with a wave of her hand.
‘I wish she hadn’t said that,’ I said, slowly.
‘Dancing on the edge of death. I don’t like it.’
‘I know. It is too near the truth. She has courage, that little one. Yes, she has courage. But unfortunately it is not courage that is needed at this moment. Caution, not courage— voilàce qu’il nous faut! ’
The following day was Sunday. We were sitting on the terrace in front of the hotel, and it was about half-pasteleven when Poirot suddenly rose to his feet.
‘Come, my friend. We will try a little experiment. I have ascertained that M. Lazarus and Madame have gone out in the car and Mademoiselle with them. The coast is clear.’
‘Clear for what?’
‘You shall see.’
We walked down the steps and across a short stretch of grass to the sea. A couple of bathers were coming up it. They passed us laughing and talking.
When they had gone, Poirot walked to the point where an inconspicuous small gate, rather rusty on its hinges, bore the words in half obliterated letters, ‘End House. Private.’ There was no one in sight. We passed quietly through.
In another minute we came out on the stretch of lawn in front of the house. There was no one about. Poirot strolled to the edge of the cliff and looked over. Then he walked towards the house itself. The French windows on to the verandah were open and we passed straight into the drawing-room. Poirot wasted no time there. He opened the door and went out into the hall. From there he mounted the stairs, I at his heels. He went straight to Nick’s bedroom—sat down on the edge of the bed and nodded to me with a twinkle.
‘You see, my friend, how easy it is. No one has seen us come. No one will see us go. We could do any littleaffair we had to do in perfect safety. We could, for instance, fray through a picture wire so that it would be bound to snap before many hours had passed. And supposing that by chance anyone did happen to be in front of the house and see us coming. Then we would have a perfectly natural excuse—providing that we were known as friends of the house.’
‘You mean that we can rule out a stranger?’
‘That is what I mean, Hastings. It is no stray lunatic who is at the bottom of this. We must look nearer home than that.’
He turned to leave the room and I followed him. We neither of us spoke. We were both, I think, troubled in mind.
And then, at the bend of the staircase, we both stopped abruptly. A man was coming up.
He too stopped. His face was in shadow but his attitude was one of one completely taken aback. He was the first to speak, in a loud, rather bullying voice.
‘What the hell are you doing here, I’d like to know?’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘Monsieur—Croft, I think?’
‘That’s my name, but what—’
‘Shall we go into the drawing-room to converse? It would be better, I think.’
The other gave way, turned abruptly and descended, we following close on his heels. In the drawing-room,with the door shut, Poirot made a little bow.
‘I will introduce myself. Hercule Poirot at your service.’
The other’s face cleared a little.
‘Oh!’ he said slowly. ‘You’re the detective chap. I’ve read about you.’
‘In the St Loo Herald ?’
‘Eh? I’ve read about you way back in Australia. French, aren’t you?’
‘Belgian. It makes no matter. This is my friend, Captain Hastings.’
‘Glad to meet you. But look, what’s the big
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